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THE  COTTER'S  SATURDAY 
NIGHT  AND  OTHER  POEMS 
BY  ROBERT  BURNS  »s  »s  « 


WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION  BY 
WALTER  TAYLOR  FIELD 


PAUL  ELDER  AND  COMPANY 
SAN  FRANCISCO  AND  NEW  YORK 


COPYRIGHT,  1907,   BY 
WALTER  TAYLOR  FIELD 


THE  POETRY  OF  BURNS 

^I^HE  poetry  of  Burns  is  altogether  the  most 
■  IJ  g^^uine  thing  that  we  find  in  English  liter- 
^^^ature.  Unstudied,  artless,  often  rude,  it 
voices  the  joys  and  sorrows,  the  loves,  the 
aspirations  of  the  human  heart,  and  interprets  the 
beauty  of  the  commonplace, — that  beauty  which 
lies  all  about  us,  if  we  had  but  eyes  to  see.  Burns 
performed  the  miracle  of  the  old  fairy  tale,  spin- 
ning out  of  the  straw  upon  the  cottage  floor  a 
thread  of  finest  gold.  It  is  this  clear  vision  of  the 
beautiful  in  everyday  life,  this  wide  humanity,  this 
deep  sincerity,  that  has  made  him  the  most  loved 
and  —  excepting  Shakespeare  —  the  most  widely 
read  of  all  the  British  poets. 

There  was  nothing  in  the  circumstances  of  his 
life  to  make  a  poet ;  indeed  there  w^as  everything 
to  discourage  the  making  of  one.  Born  in  an 
artificial  age  and  amid  the  most  prosaic  surround- 
ings;   oppressed   by  a  poverty  so  insistent  that 


he  was  forced  to  labor  far  beyond  his  strength ; 
thinking  out  his  poems  as  he  stumbled  along  the 
furrow  behind  his  plow,  or  rode  through  the  night 
pursuing  the  duties  of  a  petty  exciseman ;  drawn 
to  the  tavern  as  a  relief  from  overwork  and 
worry,  and  there  indulging  himself  until,  at  the 
age  of  thirty-seven,  he  died,  worn  out  with  his 
excesses,— this  is  the  sad  history  of  one  of  the 
brightest  and  sweetest  characters  that  Scotland 
has  produced. 

Yet  his  life  was  not  all  dark.  His  early  years, 
though  shrouded  in  poverty,  were  brightened  by 
the  influence  of  a  home  where  love  and  sympathy 
were  ever  present  and  where  devoted  piety  glori- 
fied the  mean  surroundings.  It  is  into  this  home 
that  he  lets  us  look  in  "The  Cotter  s  Saturday 
Night".  The  cotter  is  Burns's  father, — an  honest, 
intelligent,  God-fearing  man  who  with  his  "frugal 
wifie"  and  the  "younkers  a' "  make  such  a  group 
as  would  adorn  any  land  and  any  age.  It  illus- 
trates the  homely  virtue,  the  simple  dignity,  and 
the  religious  faith  which  have  long  character- 
ized the  Scottish  peasantry.    The  most  valuable 


testimony  as  to  the  truth  of  'The  Cotter's  Saturday 
Night"  is  that  given  by  the  old  servant  of  Burns's 
friend  Mrs.  Dunlop,  who  said,  "Gentlemen  and 
ladies  may  think  muokle  o'  this.  But  for  me,  it's 
naething  but  what  I  saw  i'  my  faither's  hoose 
every  day,  and  I  dinna  see  hoo  he  could  hae  tell't 
it  ony  ither  way." 

'The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night"  shows  us  the 
religious  element  in  Burns  —  for  in  spite  of  his 
lapses  from  virtue  and  his  hatred  of  a  harsh  theo- 
logy, he  was  essentially  religious.  His  religion, 
however,  was  the  religion  of  sentiment  and  im- 
pulse—not of  principle.  His  heart  was  right  but 
his  will  was  pitifully  weak.  The  controlling  motive 
of  his  life  was  love — a  love  often  unwisely  be- 
stowed, often  leading  him  into  temptations  from 
which  he  was  not  strong  enough  to  free  himself, 
but  always  full  and  rich  and  magnificently  whole- 
souled. 

It  is  in  his  songs  that  he  shows  his  real  strength, 
— for  here  his  passion,  his  tenderness,  and  his 
exquisite  sense  of  melody  are  most  strongly  felt. 
They  sing  themselves.    As  Carlyle  says,  "they 


come  in  fitful  gushes,  in  glowing  hints,  in  fantastic 
breaks,  in  warblings  not  of  the  voice  only  but  of 
the  whole  mind." 

We  must  not  expect  to  find  in  Burns  those  qual- 
ities which  from  his  very  nature  were  impossible. 
His  poetry  is  not  the  greatest  poetry,  and  the 
music  of  his  verse  is  different  in  kind  from  that 
of  every  other  British  poet.  It  is  not  the  many- 
toned  symphony  of  Shakespeare,  nor  the  organ 
fugue  of  Milton,  nor  the  rich  fantasie  of  Spenser, 
nor  even  the  soaring  lark-song  of  Shelley.  It  is 
the  music  of  a  shepherd's  pipe,  but  it  carries 
straight  to  the  heart. 

Walter  Taylor  Field 


THE  COTTER'S  SATURDAY  NIGHT 

INSCRIBED  TO  ROBERT  AIKEN,  ESQ. 


Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  loil. 
Their  homely  joys  and  destiny  obscure ; 

Nor  Grandeur  hear  with  a  disdainful  smile 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

—GRAY 


^^^A^Y  LOV'D,  my  honour'd,  much  respected 

B^^L     No  mercenary  bard  his  homage  pays ; 

With  honest  pride,  I  scorn  each  selfish  end ; 
My  dearest  meed  a  friend's  esteem  and  praise. 
To  you  I  sing,  in  simple  Scottish  lays. 
The  lowly  train  in  life's  sequester'd  scene ; 

The  native  feelings  strong,  the  guileless  ways ; 
What  Aiken  in  a  cottage  would  have  been ; 
Ah!  tho'  his  worth  unknown,  far  happier  there,  I  ween ! 


November  chill  blaws  loud  wi'  angry  sugh, 

The  shortening  winter  day  is  near  a  close; 
The  miry  beasts  retreating  frae  the  pleugh, 

The  black'ning  trains  o'  craws  to  their  repose ; 

The  toil-worn  Cotter  frae  his  labour  goes, — 
This  night  his  weekly  moil  is  at  an  end, — 

Collects  his  spades,  his  mattocks,  and  his  hoes, 
Hoping  the  morn  in  ease  and  rest  to  spend, 
And  weary,  o'er  the  moor,  his  course  does  hameward 
bend. 

At  length  his  lonely  cot  appears  in  view, 

Beneath  the  shelter  of  an  aged  tree ; 
Th'  expectant  wee-things,  toddlin,  stacher  through 

To  meet  their  dad,  wi'  flichterin  noise  an'  glee. 

His  wee  bit  ingle,  blinkin  bonilie. 
His  clean  hearth-stane,  his  thrifty  wifie's  smile, 

The  lisping  infant  prattling  on  his  knee, 
Does  a'  his  weary  kiaugh  and  care  beguile, 
An'  makes  him  quite  forget  his  labour  an'  his  toil. 

8 


Belyve,  the  elder  bairns  come  drappin  in, 
At  service  out  amang  the  farmers  roun' ; 

Some  ca'  the  pleugh,  some  herd,  some  tentie  rin 
A  cannie  errand  to  a  neibor  toun : 
Their  eldest  hope,  their  Jenny,  woman-grown, 

In  youthfu'  bloom,  love  sparkling  in  her  ee, 
Comes  hame,  perhaps  to  shew  a  braw  new 
gown. 

Or  deposite  her  sair-won  penny-fee 
To  help  her  parents  dear,  if  they  in  hardship  be. 

With  joy  unfeign'd  brothers  and  sisters  meet. 

An'  each  for  other's  weelfare  kindly  spiers: 
The  social  hours,  swift- wing'd,  unnotic'd  fleet ; 

Each  tells  the  uncos  that  he  sees  cr  hears. 

The  parents,  partial,  eye  their  hopeful  years ; 
Anticipation  forward  points  the  view ; 

The  mother,  wi'  her  needle  an'  her  sheers. 
Gars  auld  claes  look  amaist  as  weel's  the  new; 
The  father  mixes  a  wi'  admonition  due. 


Their  master's  an'  their  mistress's  command 
The  younkers  a'  are  warned  to  obey ; 

An'  mind  their  labours  wi'  an  eydent  hand, 
An'  ne'er,  tho'  out  o'  sight,  to  jauk  or  play : 
"An'  O !  be  sure  to  fear  the  Lord  alway, 

An'  mind  your  duty,  duly,  morn  an'  night ! 
Lest  in  temptation's  path  ye  gang  astray, 

Implore  His  counsel  and  assisting  might : 
They  never  sought  in  vain  that  sought  the  Lord 
aright ! " 

But  hark !  A  rap  comes  gently  to  the  door. 

Jenny,  wha  kens  the  meaning  o'  the  same, 
Tells  how  a  neibor  lad  cam  o'er  the  moor, 

To  do  some  errands,  and  convoy  her  hame. 

The  wily  mother  sees  the  conscious  flame 
Sparkle  in  Jenny's  ee,  and  flush  her  cheek ; 

Wi'  heart-struck,  anxious  care,  inquires  his  name. 
While  Jenny  hafflins  is  afraid  to  speak ; 
Weel  pleas'd  the  mother  hears  it's  nae  wild  worthless 
rake. 

lO 


Wi'  kindly  welcome  Jenny  brings  him  ben, 

A  strappin  youth ;  he  takes  the  mother's  eye ; 
Blythe  Jenny  sees  the  visit's  no  ill  taen ; 

The  father  cracks  of  horses,  pleughs,  and  kye. 

The  youngster's  artless  heart  o'erflows  wi'  joy, 
But,  blate  and  laithfu',  scarce  can  weel  behave ; 

The  mother  wi'  a  woman's  wiles  can  spy 
What  maks  the  youth  sae  bashfu'  an'  sae  grave, 
Weel  pleas'd  to  think  her  bairn's  respected  like  the 
lave. 

O  happy  love !  where  love  like  this  is  found ! 

O  heart-felt  raptures !  bliss  beyond  compare ! 
I've  paced  much  this  weary,  mortal  round. 

And  sage  experience  bids  me  this  declare — 

''If  Heaven  a  draught  of  heavenly  pleasure  spare, 
One  cordial  in  this  melancholy  vale, 

'Tis  when  a  youthful,  loving,  modest  pair. 
In  other's  arms  breathe  out  the  tender  tale, 
Beneath  the  milk-white  thorn  that  scents  the  ev'ning 
gale." 


1 1 


Is  there,  in  human  form,  that  bears  a  heart, 

A  wretch !  a  villain !  lost  to  love  and  truth ! 
That  can  with  studied,  sly,  ensnaring  art 

Betray  sweet  Jenny's  unsuspecting  youth  ? 

Curse  on  his  perjur'd  arts !  dissembling  smooth ! 
Are  honour,  virtue,  conscience,  all  exil'd  ? 

Is  there  no  pity,  no  relenting  ruth, 
Points  to  the  parents  fondling  o'er  their  child, 
Then  paints  the  ruin'd  maid,  and  their  distraction 
wild? 

But  now  the  supper  crowns  their  simple  board. 

The  halesome  parritch,  chief  of  Scotia's  food ; 
The  sowpe  their  only  hawkie  does  afford, 

That  yont  the  hallan  snugly  chows  her  cud. 

The  dame  brings  forth,  in  complimental  mood. 
To  grace  the  lad,  her  weel-hain'd  kebbuck  fell, 

An'  aft  he's  prest,  an'  aft  he  ca's  it  guid ; 
The  frugal  wifie,  garrulous,  will  tell 
How  't  was  a  towmond  auld,  sin'  lint  was  i'  the  bell. 

12 


The  cheerfu'  supper  done,  wi'  serious  face, 

They  round  the  ingle  form  a  circle  wide ; 
The  sire  turns  o'er  with  patriarchal  grace 

The  big  ha'-bible,  ance  his  father's  pride; 

His  bonnet  rev'rently  is  laid  aside, 
His  lyart  haffets  ^vearing  thin  and  bare ; 

Those  strains  that  once  did  sweet  in  Zion  glide, 
He  wales  a  portion  with  judicious  care ; 
And,  "Let  us  worship  God,"  he  says  with  solemn 
air. 

They  chant  their  artless  notes  in  simple  guise ; 

They  tune  their  hearts,  by  far  the  noblest  aim : 
Perhaps  Dundee's  wild-warbling  measures  rise, 

Or  plaintive  Martyrs,  worthy  of  the  name, 

Or  noble  Elgin  beets  the  heaven-ward  flame. 
The  sweetest  far  of  Scotia's  holy  lays. 

Compar'd  with  these,  Italian  trills  are  tame ; 
The  tickl'd  ear  no  heart- felt  raptures  raise : 
Nae  unison  hae  they  with  our  Creator's  praise. 

»3 


The  priest-like  father  reads  the  sacred  page,— 

How  Abram  was  the  friend  of  God  on  high ; 
Or  Moses  bade  eternal  warfare  wage 

With  Amalek's  ungracious  progeny ; 

Or  how  the  royal  bard  did  groaning  lie 
Beneath  the  stroke  of  heaven's  avenging  ire ; 

Or  Job's  pathetic  plaint,  and  wailing  cry ; 
Or  rapt  Isaiah's  wild,  seraphic  fire ; 
Or  other  holy  seers  that  tune  the  sacred  lyre. 

Perhaps  the  Christian  volume  is  the  theme, — 
How  guiltless  blood  for  guilty  man  was  shed ; 

How  He,  who  bore  in  heav'n  the  second  name, 
Had  not  on  earth  whereon  to  lay  His  head: 
How  His  first  followers  and  servants  sped ; 

The  precepts  sage  they  wrote  to  many  a  land : 
How  he,  who  lone  in  Patmos  banished, 

Saw  in  the  sun  a  mighty  angel  stand, 
And  heard  great  Bab'lon's  doom  pronounced  by 
Heav'n's  command. 


H 


Then  kneeling  down  to  Heavens  eternal  King. 

The  saint,  the  father,  and  the  husband  prays: 
Hope  "springs  exulting  on  triumphant  wing," 

That  thus  they  all  shall  meet  in  future  days : 

There  ever  bask  in  uncreated  rays, 
No  more  to  sigh  or  shed  the  bitter  tear, 

Together  hymning  their  Creator's  praise, 
In  such  society,  yet  still  more  dear, 
While  circling  Time  moves  round  in  an  eternal 
sphere. 

Compar'd  with  this,  how  poor  Religion's  pride 

In  all  the  pomp  of  method  and  of  art, 
When  men  display  to  congregations  wide 

Devotion's  ev'ry  grace  except  the  heart! 

The  Pow'r,  incens'd,  the  pageant  will  desert, 
The  pompous  strain,  the  sacerdotal  stole ; 

But  haply  in  some  cottage  far  apart 
May  hear,  well  pleased,  the  language  of  the  soul, 
And  in  His  book  of  life  the  inmates  poor  enrol. 

15 


Then  homeward  all  take  off  their  sev'ral  way ; 

The  youngling  cottagers  retire  to  rest ; 
The  parent- pair  their  secret  homage  pay, 

And  proffer  up  to  Heav'n  the  warm  request 

That  He  who  stills  the  raven's  clam'rous  nest 
And  decks  the  lily  fair  in  flow'ry  pride, 

Would,  in  the  way  His  wisdom  sees  the  best, 
For  them  and  for  their  little  ones  provide ; 
But  chiefly,  in  their  hearts  with  grace  divine  preside 

From   scenes   like   these   old   Scotia's   grandeur 
springs, 

That  makes  her  lov'd  at  home,  rever'd  abroad : 
Princes  and  lords  are  but  the  breath  of  kings, 

"An  honest  man  's  the  noblest  work  of  God": 

And  certes,  in  fair  Virtue's  heavenly  road, 
The  cottage  leaves  the  palace  far  behind : 

What  is  a  lordling's  pomp  ?  a  cumbrous  load, 
Disguising  oft  the  wretch  of  human  kind. 
Studied  in  arts  of  hell,  in  w^ickedness  refin'd ! 

i6 


O  Scotia !  my  dear,  my  native  soil ! 

For  whom  my  warmest  wish  to  Heaven  is  sent! 
Long  may  thy  hardy  sons  of  rustic  toil 

Be   blest  with   health,  and  peace,    and  sweet 
content ! 

And,  oh !  may  Heaven  their  simple  lives  prevent 
From  luxury's  contagion,  weak  and  vile ! 

Then,  howe'er  crowns  and  coronets  be  rent, 
A  virtuous  populace  may  rise  the  while, 
And  stand  a  wall  of  fire  around  their  much-lov'd  isle. 

Q  Thou !  who  pour'd  the  patriotic  tide 
That  stream'd  thro'  Wallace's  undaunted  heart, 

Who  dar'd  to  nobly  stem  tyrannic  pride. 
Or  nobly  die,  the  second  glorious  part, — 
( The  patriot's  God  peculiarly  thou  art. 

His  friend,  inspirer,  guardian,  and  reward ! ) 
O  never,  never  Scotia's  realm  desert. 

But  still  the  patriot,  and  the  patriot-bard, 
In  bright  succession  raise,  her  ornament  and  guard ! 

17 


TO  A  MOUSE 

ON  TURNING  UP  HER  NEST  WITH  THE   PLOUGH, 
NOVEMBER,  1785 

EE,  sleekit,  cowrin,  tim'rous  beastie, 
Oh,  what  a  panic's  in  thy  breastie ! 
►Thou  need  na  start  awa  sae  hasty, 
Wi'  bickerin  brattle! 
I  wad  be  laith  to  rin  an'  chase  thee 
Wi*  murd'rin  pattle ! 

I'm  truly  sorry  man's  dominion 
Has  broken  nature's  social  union, 
An'  justifies  that  ill  opinion 

Which  makes  thee  startle 
At  me,  thy  poor  earth-born  companion, 

An'  fellow- mortal ! 

i8 


I  doubt  na,  whyles,  but  thou  may  thieve : 
What  then  ?  poor  beastie,  thou  maun  live ! 
A  daimen  icker  in  a  thrave 

'S  a  sma'  request ; 
ril  get  a  blessin  wi'  the  lave, 

An'  never  miss  't ! 

Thy  wee  bit  housie,  too,  in  ruin ! 
Its  silly  wa's  the  win's  are  strewin ! 
An'  naething,  now,  to  big  a  new  ane, 

O'  foggage  green ! 
An'  bleak  December's  winds  ensuin 

Baith  snell  an'  keen ! 

Thou  saw  the  fields  laid  bare  and  waste, 
An'  weary  winter  comin  fast, 
An'  cozie  here  beneath  the  blast 

Thou  thought  to  dwell, 
Till  crash !  the  cruel  coulter  past 

Out  thro'  thy  cell. 


19 


That  wee  bit  heap  o'  leaves  an'  stibble 
Has  cost  thee  mony  a  weary  nibble ! 
Now  thou's  turn'd  out  for  a  thy  trouble, 

But  house  or  hald, 
To  thole  the  winter's  sleety  dribble 

An'  cranreuch  cauld! 

But,  Mousie,  thou  art  no  thy  lane 
In  proving  foresight  may  be  vain : 
The  best  laid  schemes  o'  mice  an'  men 

Gang  aft  a-gley, 
An'  lea'e  us  nought  but  grief  an'  pain 

For  promis'd  joy. 

Still  thou  art  blest,  compar'd  wi'  me!  ' 
The  present  only  toucheth  thee : 
But,  och !  I  backward  cast  my  ee 

On  prospects  drear! 
An'  forward,  tho'  I  canna  see, 

I  guess  an'  fear! 

20 


A  MAN'S  A  MAN  FOR  A'  THAT 


S  there,  for  honest  poverty, 

That  hings  his  head,  an'  a'  that? 
The  coward  slave,  we  pass  him  by, 
We  dare  be  poor  for  a'  that! 
For  a  that,  an'  a'  that, 

Our  toils  obscure,  an'  a'  that; 
The  rank  is  but  the  guinea's  stamp ; 
The  man's  the  gowd  for  a'  that. 


What  tho'  on  hamely  fare  we  dine, 

Wear  hodden- gray,  and  a'  that; 
Gie  fools  their  silk,  and  knaves  their  wine, 

A  man 's  a  man  for  a  that. 
For  a  that,  an'  a  that. 

Their  tinsel  show,  an'  a'  that ; 
The  honest  man,  tho'  e'er  sae  poor, 

Is  king  o'men  for  a  that. 


SI 


Ye  see  yon  birkie,  ca'd  a  lord, 

Wha  struts,  an'  stares,  an'  a'  that; 
Tho'  hundreds  worship  at  his  word, 

He 's  but  a  coot  for  a'  that : 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that, 

His  riband,  star,  an'  a'  that, 
The  man  o'  independent  mind. 

He  looks  and  laughs  at  a'  that. 

A  prince  can  mak  a  belted  knight, 

A  marquis,  duke,  an'  a'  that ; 
But  an  honest  man 's  aboon  his  might, 

Guid  faith  he  mauna  fa'  that! 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that. 

Their  dignities,  an'  a'  that. 
The  pith  o'  sense,  an'  pride  o'  worth, 

Are  higher  rank  than  a'  that. 

Then  let  us  pray  that  come  it  may, 

As  come  it  will  for  a'  that. 
That  sense  and  worth,  o'er  a'  the  earth. 

May  bear  the  gree,  an'  a'  that. 


22 


For  a'  that,  an*  a'  that, 
It 's  coming  yet,  for  a'  that, 

That  man  to  man,  the  warld  o*er 
Shall  brothers  be  for  a'  that 


2.? 


SCOTS  WHA  HAE 

ROBERT  BRUCE'S  ADDRESS  TO  HIS  ARMY 

SCOTS,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled, 
Scots,  wham  Bruce  has  aften  led ; 
I  Welcome  to  your  gory  bed. 
Or  to  victory ! 
Now 's  the  day,  and  now 's  the  hour ; 
See  the  front  o'  battle  lour ; 
See  approach  proud  Edward's  power — 
Chains  and  slavery! 

Wha  will  be  a  traitor  knave  ? 
Wha  can  fill  a  coward's  grave? 
Wha  sae  base  as  be  a  slave? 

Let  him  turn  and  flee ! 
Wha  for  Scotland's  king  and  law 
Freedom's  sword  will  strongly  draw, 
Freeman  stand,  or  Freeman  fa*, 

Let  him  follow  me ! 


24 


By  oppression's  woes  and  pains  I 
By  your  sons  in  servile  chains ! 
We  will  drain  our  dearest  veins, 

But  they  shall  be  free ! 
Lay  the  proud  usurpers  low ! 
Tyrants  fall  in  every  foe  I 
Liberty 's  in  every  blow !  — 

Let  us  do.  or  die ! 


25 


A  RED,  RED  ROSE 

Y  Luve  is  like  a  red,  red  rose, 
That 's  newly  sprung  in  June: 

My  Luve  is  like  the  melodie, 
That 's  sweetly  play'd  in  tune 

As  fair  thou  art,  my  bonie  lass, 

So  deep  in  luve  am  I : 
And  I  will  luve  thee  still,  my  Dear, 

Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry. 

Till  a  the  seas  gang  dry,  my  Dear, 
And  the  rocks  melt  wi'  the  sun ; 

And  I  will  luve  thee  still,  my  Dear, 
While  the  sands  o'  life  shall  run. 

And  fare-thee-well,  my  only  Luve ! 

And  fare-thee-well  awhile ! 
And  I  will  come  again,  my  Luve, 

Tho'  't  were  ten  thousand  mile ! 

26 


BONIE  DOON 

E  flowery  banks  o'  bonie  Doon, 
How  can  ye  blume  sae  fair? 

How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  birds, 
And  I  sae  in  o'  care  ? 


Thou  '11  break  my  heart,  thou  bonie  bird, 

That  sings  upon  the  bough ; 
Thou  minds  me  o'  the  happy  days. 

When  my  fause  luve  was  true. 

Thou  11  break  my  heart,  thou  bonie  bird, 

That  sings  beside  thy  mate ; 
For  sae  I  sat,  and  sae  I  sang, 

And  wist  na  o'  my  fate. 

Aft  hae  I  rov'd  by  bonie  Doon 
To  see  the  wood-bine  twine. 

And  ilka  bird  sang  o'  its  luve. 
And  sae  did  I  o*  mine. 


27 


Wi*  lightsome  heart  I  pu'd  a  rose 
Frae  aff  its  thorny  tree ; 

And  my  fause  luver  staw  my  rose 
But  left  the  thorn  wi'  me. 


28 


FLOW  GENTLY,  SWEET  AFTON 

FLOW  gently,  sweet  Afton,  among  thy  green 
braes, 
Flow  gently,  I'll  sing  thee  a  song  in  thy  praise ; 
My  Mary's  asleep  by  thy  murmuring  stream, 
Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  disturb  not  her  dream. 

Thou  stock-dove  whose  echo  resounds  thro'  the  glen. 
Ye  wild  whistling  blackbirds  in  yon  thorny  den. 
Thou  green-crested  lapwing,  thy  screaming  forbear, 
I  charge  you  disturb  not  my  slumbering  fair. 

How  lofty,  sweet  Afton,  thy  neighbouring  hills. 
Far  mark'd  w^ith  the  courses  of  clear  winding  rills ; 
There  daily  I  wander  as  noon  rises  high. 
My  flocks  and  my  Mary's  sweet  cot  in  my  eye. 

How  pleasant  thy  banks  and  green  valleys  below^, 
Where  wild  in  the  woodlands  the  primroses  blow ; 


29 


There  oft,  as  mild  Evening  weeps  over  the  lea, 
The  sweet-scented  birk  shades  my  Mary  and  me. 

Thy  crystal  stream,  Afton,  how  lovely  it  glides, 
And  winds  by  the  cot  where  my  Mary  resides ; 
How  wanton  thy  waters  her  snow^  feet  lave. 
As  gathering  sweet  flow'rets  she  stems  thy  clear  wave. 

Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  among  thy  green  braes, 
Flow  gently,  sweet  river,  the  theme  of  my  lays ; 
My  Mary 's  asleep  by  thy  murmuring  stream. 
Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  disturb  not  her  dream. 


30 


OF  A'  THE  AIRTS 

^i^  F  a'  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw 
^11^     I  dearly  like  the  west, 
^^1  t  For  there  the  bonie  lassie  lives, 

The  lassie  I  lo'e  best : 
There's  wild  woods  grow  an'  rivers  row, 

An'  mony  a  hill  between ; 
But  day  and  night  my  fancy's  flight 

Is  ever  wi'  my  Jean. 

I  see  her  in  the  dewy  flow'rs, 

I  see  her  sweet  an'  fair : 
I  hear  her  in  the  tunefu'  birds, 

I  hear  her  charm  the  air : 
There 's  not  a  bonie  flow'r  that  springs 

By  fountain,  shaw,  or  green ; 
There 's  not  a  bonie  bird  that  sings, 

But  minds  me  o'  my  Jean. 

3' 


JOHN  ANDERSON,  MY  JO 

l^#OHN  Anderson  my  jo,  John, 
1 1      When  we  were  first  acquent, 

#M^  Your  locks  were  hke  the  raven, 
Your  bonie  brow  was  brent ; 

But  now  your  brow  is  beld,  John, 
Your  locks  are  like  the  snaw ; 

But  blessings  on  your  frosty  pow, 
John  Anderson  my  jo. 

John  Anderson  my  jo,  John, 

We  clamb  the  hill  thegither ; 
And  monie  a  canty  day,  John, 

We've  had  wi'  ane  anither : 
Now  we  maun  totter  down,  John, 

And  hand  in  hand  we  '11  go, 
And  sleep  thegither  at  the  foot, 

John  Anderson  my  jo. 


32 


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